The camp is filled with Webelos this week,
10-year-olds tenting in the forest to be trained
in the special lore Boy Scouts need at 11.
Trekking to Apache campsite, you don’t let me
carry your gear. You barely watch as I leave
to find the parking lot.
The trees behind me echo with the shouts of a hundred
wild Webelos, safe in the valley between
childhood and what is to come.
You’ll be ours again in a week, but something will be lost,
drifted off like the smoke of campfires or nighttime
shadows around your tent.
The Webelo I drive back home will stare ahead
through the windshield, eyes focused on longer
journeys through deeper forests.


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